


Better Than Sleep

by LamentingQuill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LamentingQuill/pseuds/LamentingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the making up is worth the arguing that got you there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Sleep

** Better Than Sleep **

by

_Lamenting Quill_

****

* * *

 

 

A small sigh escaped the silence of the night.

Beneath the soft stream of moonlight shining through the window lay a pair of legs, entwined restlessly within cotton sheets; their owner on their side, staring unseeingly at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock that rested on the bedside table.

3:29 a.m. and Hermione couldn’t sleep. Idly, her hand was caressing the empty expanse of bed beside her, her memories swirling around the events that landed her here alone. She could smell the faint scent of him on his pillow and she burrowed her face closer to it, letting her eyes fall closed as she inhaled. For a moment she couldn’t recall exactly why she had been so angry with him – only for a moment.

She wondered what he might be thinking right now. Was he peacefully sleeping, at ease being on the worn sofa? Or, perhaps, was he missing holding her the way she missed being held? The feel of his strong arms wrapped protectively around her as she gave into the seductive tendrils of sleep, feeling so warm and safe in his loving embrace. She could almost feel him now.

Almost.

They hadn’t slept apart often in their eleven years of marriage. The most she could remember being separated from him was when their daughter had been little, and had insisted that between mommy and daddy was the best place to sleep. She missed those days, yet she was also glad that they had passed.

She remembered with fondness when they had finally managed to get Abigail to sleep in her own room consistently. She and Remus had regained their bed, as well as their passion. And yet, here she was lying alone while her husband was in the other room.

She really had no right to miss him. After all, it was she that had put them in this current arrangement. It was her own words that had doomed her to this restless, miserable night. She blamed her father. It wasn’t her fault that she had inherited his temper.

She sighed again.

This was ridiculous! She had sentenced her husband to a night on the sofa, and all because of some petty argument. One which she couldn’t even recall how it came to be started – only words that had been yelled in aggravation, things that neither of them had meant.

Why was it that people tended to relieve their stress on the ones that they love? Perhaps it was because they were so readily available. Or perhaps it was the trust you placed within them; the calm knowledge that forgiveness awaited you whenever you were ready to accept it, for those that truly love and care for you never hold your shortcomings – or short-tempers – against you.

Hermione allowed her eyes to glance once more at the clock. 3:51. It was no use.

Disentangling herself from the covers she pulled her housecoat over her cotton nightgown and slipped her chilled feet into her slippers. Padding softly down the hall, she stopped at her daughter’s door, peering inside.

Abigail was sleeping peacefully, her pink Grindylow night light glowing brightly in the darkness, her little arms wrapped tightly around the teddy bear her daddy gave her for her sixth birthday last year. Her brown hair was fanned out on her pink pillow, and her eyelashes formed sweet crescents upon her innocent cheeks.

Hermione resisted the temptation to take the resting angel into her arms and never let go. She didn’t want to wake her, and as all mothers do, she knew she would have to let go eventually.

Leaving silently, she made her way into the living room. The sofa’s back was facing her, though she could see one of Remus’s feet hanging uncomfortably off the end of the piece of furniture’s arm. She felt all traces of her earlier anger completely disappear, to be replaced by the creeping twinges of guilt.

Her slippers flipped softly against her heels as she made her way around the sofa, her husband falling completely into her view. His eyes were closed, hiding his mesmerising hazel gaze from her brown. His sandy hair was tussled, a few grey strands illuminated by the pale light leaking through the nearby window.

He hated those greying strands.

She loved him more for them.

He was wrapped loosely in what she recognised as their wedding quilt, made for them by her grandmother before she had died. It was one of those special things that she intended to pass down to Abigail when the time came. Remus’s head was turned toward her, allowing her to observe the angles of his face – his strong jaw, his perfect nose, his noble chin. The corners of his mouth were turned down slightly, lips forming a soft frown in his sleep.

There were more lines around his eyes than when they had first met. She liked to think they were from so much smiling, and that perhaps she had given him a few of those over the years. One of his rugged hands was splayed next to his face, resting upon his pillow while the other was curled slightly around the quilt, holding it to his chest.

How she loved those hands.

They had always been there for her when she needed them. They had pulled her close when she needed comfort, dried her tears when sorrow came; they held her own in silent contentment, and caressed her lovingly in heated passion. She had watched them reach for their new-born child, saw them hold the bottle as he fed her. They had changed diapers, brushed their little girl’s hair. They were hands that had worked hard every day, and held her every night.

Almost every night.

Allowing her wandering gaze to travel back to his handsome face, her breath caught in her chest as she realised he was awake, fathomless eyes staring at her in unspoken forgiveness.

Without speaking a word, he raised the quilt invitingly.

She needn’t be asked twice.

Removing her housecoat, she draped it over a nearby chair, stepping out of her slippers. She crawled beneath the quilt on the narrow sofa, snuggled tightly against her husband’s chest.

She didn’t speak. It wasn’t necessary. More could be said with silence and simple gestures than words could ever dream to convey.

She placed her hand upon his bare chest, splaying her fingers across the expanse of flesh that his heart dwelled beneath. She let the gentle beating under her palm soothe her, as his lips made contact with her temple. One of those hands that always enthralled her came up to gently brush the hair from her face, and she leaned into his touch, relishing in the feel of his rough calluses against her cheek.

She wished then that she could freeze time. That she could stay within this moment forever, staring into hazel eyes filled with love, caught in a sweet swirl of forgiveness and affection. It was one of those rare moments, the kind that became a worn and cherished memory.

She shivered as his warm breath fell upon her neck, and as his lips followed softly she became lost in passionate reminisces. Delicious memories of previous times his lips had caressed her skin, and occasions when he had made her tremble in lascivious delight.

Wrapped up tightly in Remus’s embrace was the only place she had ever felt that she truly belonged. He made her feel peaceful and cherished when he held her, and when he worshipped her body with those magical hands she felt like a goddess.

She knew that she was incredibly blessed to have this wonderful man in her life. He was a far better husband than she could have ever dreamt of having, and an amazing father to their gorgeous child. She still marvelled that they had been married for eleven glorious years. Sometimes it felt like only one, others it felt like fifty, but it never ceased feeling _right_.

She had been foolish to think she would ever get any sleep without him in their bed. Though as her nightgown made its home on the floor and her lips were caught in a searing kiss, tonight she knew there would be no rest for either of them.

She smiled as her toes curled into the cushions of the sofa, and her wandering hands explored the familiar lines of her husband’s body. She knew there would be more fights in the future, more things spoken that should remain unsaid, and more harsh words uttered that were never meant. But as long as there were times like these to hold on to, moments of desire and laughter and blissful happiness, the absurd and petty fights would always be overshadowed.

Hermione’s eyes fell closed as she gave herself fully to the beckoning of ecstasy, her husband engaging her in an archaic dance of love and trust, and making her feel like a goddess.

A small sigh escaped the silence of the night.

This was far better than sleep.

 

 


End file.
